


Approach With Caution

by leporidae



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Dogs, First Meetings, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-11 10:30:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15970493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leporidae/pseuds/leporidae
Summary: When Phichit comes across Seung-gil crouched to the ground and intently peering under a parked car, he isn’t quite sure what to think.





	Approach With Caution

**Author's Note:**

> My fic for the [Rare Pairs on Ice Zine!](https://yoirarepairzine.tumblr.com/) I actually wrote this quite a few months ago (either in February or March?) and I'm only just able to post it now that the zines are coming in. Thank you so much for having me!
> 
> This is the only seungchuchu I've written and posted from Phichit's perspective instead of Seung-gil's. After writing so much Seung-gil, it was fun to explore their dynamic from the other side.

The true magic of Phichit Chulanont is his ability to befriend _anyone_. His close friendships with a variety of eccentric skaters — including Yuuri Katsuki, Leo de la Iglesia, Guang Hong Ji, and even the legendary Victor Nikiforov, just to name a few  — are a testament to that.

Unfortunately, none of the aforementioned friends are currently in Phichit’s bracket at Skate Canada this year. Instead his fellow skaters are all people he doesn’t know incredibly well, which in turn has him feeling unusually lost. Without a companion, how will he destress before the competition, exploring the city’s night life and taking an excess number of filtered selfies for Instagram?

The Thai skater shakes his head, sternly reminding himself that agonizing over such a quandary is completely unlike him. So what if he’s not bosom buddies with anyone yet? He knows he’s a natural magnet of charm, and his competitors will be sucked into his benevolent black hole of cheerful energy before they know it. Nothing to worry about.

With those self-encouraging thoughts at the forefront of his mind, Phichit steps through the automatic doors of his hotel, rolling his suitcase behind him with a confident jaunt in his step.

At the front desk waiting to retrieve his room key is Seung-gil Lee, the skater representing South Korea at Skate Canada this year. Seung-gil is well-known in the skating community for his extremely antisocial tendencies, so normally Phichit would pay him no mind out of respect (and mild trepidation), but right now he can’t help but stare. The other is clad in what Phichit believes may be the least coordinated outfit he’s ever laid eyes on, complete with a hideous purple and green sweater with a Siberian Husky’s face stitched in the front, ugly dark gray athletic pants with a white stripe down the side  — and are those bright red socks he spies peeking out at his ankles?

Phichit tries not to laugh.

Catching notice of Phichit’s gaze, the Korean skater ducks past him with a soft grunt of distress, and Phichit can practically sense the lack of desire to socialize radiating off his body like an aura. Seung-gil’s sleeve brushes against his own as he moves past him, and he makes awkward eye contact with Phichit for a moment under furrowed brows. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” Phichit replies quietly, but he’s not certain the other hears it before he vanishes.

Whatever had transpired between the two of them can barely be counted as an interaction, but it nags at the back of Phichit’s mind nonetheless. Perhaps it is the sobering reality that he had frozen up at the perfect opportunity to befriend another skater. Perhaps it is the incongruous apology from Seung-gil, one that surprisingly betrays anxiety buried underneath his grumpy exterior. Or perhaps it is simply that Phichit had noticed amidst his staring that underneath the layers of bad fashion is one hell of a good-looking man, unusually voluminous eyebrows and all.

_Fine, indeed._

* * *

Most of what Phichit knows about the extended skating community comes from social media. Phichit is an avid connoisseur of everything from Instagram to Snapchat to Facebook. He’s downloaded every video chat, voice chat, and instant messaging app known to humankind; he even makes aesthetic Pinterest boards for his closest friends. (He’s particularly proud of the assortment he had arranged for Yuuri, featuring photos of mouth-watering Japanese food, adorable poodles, skating  — and of course Victor Nikiforov).

In contrast, Seung-gil Lee barely has a presence on social media, the one exception being Instagram. But even then his updates are few and far between, and they never seem voluntary, as though his coach runs his account against his will. Phichit has overheard many less-than-flattering rumors about Seung-gil: that he hates his fans, that he’s terribly misogynistic, even that he’s a robot who is only capable of crunching numbers and can’t experience genuine human emotion  — though to be fair, the last one _may_ have come from a tabloid article.

Which is why when Phichit, taking a walk to sniff out the best locations for his future selfies, comes across Seung-gil crouched to the ground and intently peering under a parked car, he isn’t quite sure what to think.

“Excuse me,” Phichit begins politely, not certain how best to approach the other in his current position. “Um  — you’re Seung-gil Lee, right?”

Seung-gil’s head shoots up suddenly, knocking against the underside of the car with a metallic _thud_ , and he groans softly at the impact. “No,” he snaps, clearly not processing the question; then his face reddens as he does. “I mean, yes. Yes I am, but  — I’m busy.” Stubbornly Seung-gil’s mouth presses into a thin and unmoving line, the slowly-fading pink tinge dusting his cheeks betraying his disgruntlement.

“Busy doing what? Looking for buried treasure under there?”

The joke falls flat. Seung-gil’s lips don’t even _twitch_ , much less produce a smile. “No.”

“Then… what?” Phichit leans forward on the tips of his toes, then back on his heels, a seesaw of curiosity which he hopes doesn’t come across as impatience. Is Seung-gil irritated by his nosiness? He does seem to be a mostly private person. Maybe Phichit isn’t going to get an answer after all and he should just leave  —

“Dog.”

He blinks. “Huh?”

Seung-gil coughs, gesturing vaguely to the underside of the car. “There’s a stray dog under there,” he clarifies. “I came out to get some fresh air, and while I was walking I came across a couple trying to feed it. But the dog didn’t take the food — it ran away, and now it’s hiding under the car. I was hoping maybe if I was patient, it would realize I wasn’t a threat, and might come out. …I was worried about it, I suppose.”

This is easily the most he’s ever heard Seung-gil speak at once, even counting the few times he’s been interviewed at competitions. A small smile curls Phichit’s lips. “So? What are you planning to do, then, _dog whisperer?”_

“I’m not sure,” Seung-gil admits even as he scowls at the nickname. “But it’s got a collar, so I assumed it ran away from home? If I could just extract it, I could call its owners.” A soft, pained frown makes its way onto Seung-gil’s normally stoic face. “They might be worried sick…”

Vulnerable distress is the last expression Phichit ever would have expected to discover on Seung-gil’s countenance, and his gut does a flip. “…Lemme look.” Phichit leans down to get a better view at the subject of his colleague’s apprehension. Sure enough, what looks to be a light brown mutt of some kind (Phichit has never been particularly skilled at identifying dog breeds), is cowering low to the ground, kneading its paws on the asphalt, and even bathed in the shadow of the car Phichit can see the animal’s ribs jutting through disheveled fur. Though Phichit himself has never owned any animal larger than a hamster, the universal overprotective distress of a concerned pet owner ignites in him all the same. “Maybe we can lure it out with food?”

“Don’t have any on me. Do you?”

Phichit shakes his head.

Seung-gil purses his lips, pondering the situation for a moment, then: “While this isn’t the ideal option, if you moved around to the other side and scared it out from under there, I could possibly manage to grab it by the collar as it runs by and see if there’s a phone number on the tag.”

“What if it bites me?”

The other’s eyes scan the vicinity, gaze eventually falling on a fallen tree branch which he picks up and hands to Phichit. “You can try to nudge it out with this. _Gently._ ” Seung-gil narrows his eyes sternly, as though lecturing a child. “Don’t jab too hard, or you may hurt it.”

“Geez, I know,” Phichit says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not a monster.” Still, he finds Seung-gil’s adamant concern for the canine rather endearing. Gripping the branch in one hand, he kneels himself back down to ground level and slowly inches the stick towards the dog’s paws. It whimpers, which makes Phichit excessively guilty, but after a moment of tickling its fur the animal rises nervously and begins to back up.

It’s all over in an instant: the dog bolts, Seung-gil lunges forward, there’s a flurry of human and animal limbs, and  —

— he straightens up, hugging the scruffy dog to his chest with all the triumph of winning a gold medal at a skating competition.

“I thought it was just small, but it’s actually a puppy,” Seung-gil murmurs, eyes sparkling with warmth at the fluffy wiggling bundle in his arms.

“What a cutie,” Phichit comments absently, trying to convince his mind that he’s speaking of the puppy and not the dark-haired, bushy-eyebrowed individual cradling it. The dog’s tail wags fervently, and as Phichit stares ( _at the dog_ , he tells himself firmly) he absently observes a smudge of oil from the underside of the car streaked across Seung-gil’s cheek. His logical instinct tells him that verbally pointing it out would be the most socially-acceptable option, but his touchy-feely nature overrides it before he can hold back, and without thinking he swipes his thumb across the other’s skin.

Seung-gil freezes.

“Ah, uh. You had some dirt…” Phichit can practically feel the grin slipping off his lips, and he hastily plasters it back on with artificial intensity. “…Maybe you should  — maybe we should call the owner. There’s a number on the tag, right…?”

He nods — a silent, uncomfortable nod — and stares fixedly at the pavement.

An intense wave of panic washes over Phichit, a rare anxious current of irreversible social blunder. “Do you want to call? Actually, um, you know what — you’ve got your hands tied with the dog, so I’ll just call for you, and —"

“…Phichit.”

They’re close enough that Phichit can hear him swallow; and then Seung-gil looks up, and his grayish eyes meet Phichit’s — and he smiles.

It’s not a completely warm smile. It’s a smile of nerves and sheepishness, a smile that acknowledges Seung-gil’s own discomfort and simultaneously apologizes for it. And most importantly, it’s also a smile that acknowledges Phichit and dismisses his nerves, as though with a simple upturned curl of his lips he’d agreed, unspoken, that the two of them are now friends after sharing this absurd adventure.

Phichit hopes this isn’t the last time he sees such a smile.

“Would you like to eat dinner with me and some of the other skaters tonight?” Phichit blurts suddenly, all thoughts of a phone call evacuating his consciousness.

“Not really,” Seung-gil replies without hesitation, and Phichit is almost impressed by his unrestrained, blunt honesty. “I don’t like interacting with large groups of people I don’t know.”

“How about small groups?” Phichit tries again, determined to get through to Seung-gil somehow. “Like, a group of two? You and me? That kind of a small group. Would you wanna get breakfast with me tomorrow at the hotel?”

“I’m not a morning person.”

“I see…” Phichit’s shoulders slump down, a deflating balloon of disappointment. Was Seung-gil Lee too difficult of a friendship challenge to tackle after all?

“…We can get lunch, maybe?”

For a moment, Phichit is sure he had hallucinated the words. “…Sorry?”

Seung-gil blushes, and he coughs. “You know, lunch. The other meal. The one that’s not dinner and not breakfast.”

 _Is — is this his_ _sense of humor I’m witnessing? Holy shit._ “…Ah? I mean. Sure, we can grab lunch. Do you have a time preference?”

Seung-gil folds his arms across his chest, grimacing as though he regrets even opening this can of worms. (Phichit doesn’t regret it. Not one bit.) “…Sometime after breakfast.” The puppy in his arms whines abruptly and licks Seung-gil on the nose, a charming display which completely negates the credibility of the other’s prickly facade.

Phichit laughs.

“Just make the damn phone call already,” Seung-gil snaps, face as red as his ugly socks.

But Phichit isn’t offended, too occupied with the smug afterglow of victory.

Because as it turns out, not even Seung-gil Lee is immune to his irresistible charm.


End file.
